Ah, being a traveler in my old neck of the woods. I am in San Jose for work, which is the best possible way to spend a week back in the “real world”. I am writing this on the breezy patio at Gordon Biersch in San Jose, enjoying a czech-style pilsner.
Is it wrong that the artfully crumbling brick buildings remind me of that courtyard in Kazan? These are gentrified, with miniature lights and flower pots on the windowsills, with brick and tile neatly laid beneath iron patio chairs. In Kazan, the windows were shattered, the courtyard laid only with dust and dirt, and the chairs a sunburnt plastic.
Still, if I am able to hold no other memory dear, it will be that one; walking hesitantly through the dark alley only to emerge into a crumbling concrete eden; dun-drenched, idyllic, unforgettable.
I spend so much time lately pondering what it means to travel. But more than just the act of emotionally and physically experience the world, there’s the other deeper and darker act of dedicating your body and soul, emotionally and physically, to the road.
From Kazan to Kyoto to Krasnoyarsk to Kansas, it’s all intoxicating, it all makes my heart quicken, my breath catch, my blood pulse. Even the lowlights are experiences to savour, as cheesy as that sounds. I don’t for a moment regret spending those few boring hours in Krasnoyarsk, because it gave me that intense thrill of finally escaping for a better destination.
I get it now. I can’t live without this any more than I can give up air.
I may never own a million dollar house on the Elbow river. I may never drive a BMW, even a 3-series. But whatever else life has to teach me, I know I will always hunger for that terrifying and thrilling moment of stepping out the door of the train, the bus, the plane, and into someplace new, someplace unexplored.
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